


why are you surprised that this is what we've come to

by astano



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astano/pseuds/astano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst. Quinn's getting married. Santana comes to the wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why are you surprised that this is what we've come to

“You don’t need to do this, Quinn. It’s not too late.”

“Santana, don’t.” Quinn’s voice is low, gravelly, and she knows Santana can tell she’s been crying.

The back room of the church is dark and smells kind of musty, like it doesn’t get used a whole lot, and Quinn figures it probably doesn’t, because most brides don’t need ten minutes to clear up the evidence of tears from their face. Most brides probably don’t start crying until the actual ceremony, and then, well the tears are happy tears.

“You don’t love him,” Santana tries again, but just Quinn shakes her head and says, “It doesn’t matter. _He_ loves _me_. And my parents love him, my whole damn family loves him. I could do a lot worse.”

“You could do a lot better.”

“Like you?” Quinn says, and there’s an angry bitterness to her voice that makes Santana wince and take a step backwards. “We’ve been there, Santana. I tried _so hard_ to ignore the fact that I’ll always be second in your eyes. That she’ll _always_ be—”

“No,” Santana says, forcefully, determinedly. She steps forward again, reaching out with trembling fingers to raise Quinn’s head. “No,” she says again when Quinn lets their eyes meet for the first time since Santana stepped into the room. “I love _you_. _Only_ you.”

“Santana.” Quinn’s voice chokes off into a sob, and before she can make her throat work again, Santana’s kissing her. It feels so comfortably familiar, the weight of Santana’s body pressing into her so _right_ , and the thought makes another sob lodge in her throat. She can’t do this, can’t let Santana in again because it always ends the same way, but she can’t make herself stop.

“Please,” Santana says against her mouth. “Please.” Her voice is strained and Quinn realises Santana’s crying now, too, and she can taste the salt against her lips when Santana kisses her again.

Quinn’s chest feels so tight and she can’t breathe, but Santana’s not letting up, kissing her desperately, fingers clutching at her shoulders, her arms, touching her everywhere she can reach, and Quinn’s not pushing her away. She knows she could—she _should_ —but she doesn’t.

Santana palms at her breast through her dress, squeezing just a little too hard for it to be pleasurable, but Quinn moans anyway. The sound gets lost somewhere in Santana’s mouth, but she squeezes again and Quinn breaks away from their kiss with a gasp.

Santana spins her around, dropping her head to press kisses against Quinn’s bare shoulders, even as she reaches for the zipper of her wedding dress, lowering it slowly down. It drops easily to the floor, the brilliant white of the simple, elegant dress that Quinn had been so pleased with, crumpling against the carpet and leaving Quinn clad only in a pair of white lace panties.

A shiver works its way through Quinn’s body, goose bumps rising on her pale skin, and Quinn doesn’t know if it’s from the sudden cold or the way Santana’s fingers are skating over her hips, her stomach, the underside of her breasts.

She whimpers when Santana lets fingers slide either side of her nipples, capturing them with the slightest pressure. It shouldn’t feel so good. _It shouldn’t_. Quinn bites her lip, squeezes her eyes tight against the tears that are threatening again.

“Santana,” she says. _Stop_ , she wants to say. _Don’t ever stop_.

“I love you,” Santana says.

Quinn knows. She knows, but it’s not enough. It’s never been enough.

Santana helps her step over the ring of white around her feet, their fingers tangling together as Santana tugs her around, then pushes her backwards, until her calves hit the edge of the old leather sofa lining one side of the room. She sinks down, and Santana sinks down with her, kneeling on the floor between her legs.

“I missed you,” Santana says, as she slides her palms up the inside of Quinn’s thighs, parting her legs wider. “Every day I was with her, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” It’s not what Quinn wants to say. She wants to say, _Why? What does she have that you keep going back for? What does she give you that I don’t?_ But Santana can’t answer those questions, and Quinn got tired of asking them a long time ago. She can’t do it again, she _can’t_. But she can have this, now, one last time.

She lifts her hips, letting Santana’s fingers work down her panties and ease them off one leg, then the other. Santana drops a kiss to the inside of Quinn’s knee, then higher, again and again. Quinn’s chest grows tighter with each soft touch of lips to her skin until she can’t bear it any longer and tugs Santana’s arm, pulling her upwards and sliding their lips together in a desperate, uncoordinated kiss that lasts until Santana’s fingers press between her legs.

They slip inside effortlessly. Quinn’s eyes flutter closed and her jaw goes slack at the feeling. When her eyes reopen, unfocused and heavy with the pleasure of Santana’s fingers stroking her higher, Santana’s staring intently at her, almost like she’s memorising each expression on Quinn’s face. Quinn wants to close her eyes again, hide from the intensity of Santana’s gaze, but she can’t. She whimpers helplessly when Santana cups her cheek and smudges the sticky tracks of her half-dried tears away with the gentle caress of her thumb.

Santana’s whispering her name then, telling her she loves her, misses her, needs her, and Quinn can feel her release building, her body driven higher by Santana’s knowing fingers and desperate words.

When she comes, it’s quiet, quieter than she’s ever been, but her body trembles for what seems like forever, and caught in the intensity of her climax, she can’t stop the tears from spilling over and falling wetly down her cheeks.

They stay pressed together for a long time afterwards, Santana’s head resting in the crook of Quinn’s shoulder. She’s shaking slightly and Quinn knows she’s crying, too. She wants to tell her everything’s going to be okay, she wants to be able to say _I love you_ and not have a part of her break with every word. She doesn’t say anything at all.

Santana helps her back into her dress. They haven’t spoken since they moved from the couch and the silence is pressing in on Quinn, making it harder for her to breath than Santana’s words ever did.

“I do love him,” Quinn says, eventually, and Santana stills in her efforts at fixing her own appearance. “I love him enough for him to be happy, and he loves me. But I’m never going to be able to trust that you love me more than second best, and I can’t live with that.”

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn walks down the aisle on her father’s arm. She’s not settling, she reminds herself, because he loves her above all else, and that’s all she’s ever wanted.


End file.
